


Stay (By the Wayside)

by scribblemyname



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bed and breakfast au, Developing Relationship, F/M, First Meetings, Identity Issues, Makeup Sex, Romantic Fluff, SHIELD Safehouse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-05 19:30:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4192137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemyname/pseuds/scribblemyname
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma runs the SHIELD safehouse, the Wayside Bed and Breakfast. James is looking for safe places as he avoids the one person who remembers who he used to be. In each other, they find reprieve from the world after the fall of SHIELD.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay (By the Wayside)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hiddencait](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiddencait/gifts).



"You, Mr. Buchanan," Jemma told him, "have an uncanny knack for getting yourself 'mildly' injured." She gently ran professionally assessing fingers over the bullet graze on his side. She would have been surprised that he didn't even flinch, but he usually didn't. "You remind me of someone," she said with a smile.

He turned to her, questioning expression on his face. "Who's that?"

She shrugged and rummaged through her supplies for the alcohol. "Another agent. He's always landing himself in 'requires medical attention', though according to the actual medical division, he's terrible at getting it." She lifted a small bottle of painkillers, eyebrows raised.

He just looked at her.

Jemma sighed. "Fine, but you don't have to be in pain the entire time you know."

"It doesn't hurt much." He watched her carefully as she went work, tracking her every movement.

It was disconcerting, having that much attention on her with such a small space between them. She had to get in close to see as she applied his stitches, lifted up his hair to clean the small but deep cut from what looked like a knife on the back of his neck, then carefully seal that with gauze.

"That was a close call," she said, worry knitting in her chest. She looked at James, realized she had lost him somewhere in there. His gaze was unfocused and distant. "James," she said softly, fingers carding gently through the hair at his nape.

The quiet plea drew him back outside himself. He was present, gaze coming alert again.

His skin was warm under her fingertips, his hair damp and clinging. She realized suddenly she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face. She smiled awkwardly and retreated to gather up her things. She dropped her gaze to scissors and gauze and… James' right hand catching her chin. He didn't press or pull, but she lifted her head in surprise to meet his questioning look.

He hesitated, just a moment, then leaned in slowly.

She had time to pull away, but he was so close and every moment stood out like a sharp pinprick. Then there was his mouth, warm and soft on hers. She responded, pressing back, mouth opening to him as he pushed. His hand gripped her wrist on her lap, the other tugging her hip closer. Heat curled in her belly, and she shivered.

The bell at the front desk sounded, and they both had to pause, catch their bearings and their breath.

"I should get that," Jemma said.

James let her go. He settled his hands on the bed on either side of him as she watched, already missing his touch.

But she made herself go and handle the front desk because that's what she needed to. She put on a bright enough smile before she greeted the next comer: "Welcome to Wayside Bed and Breakfast."

* * *

Jemma had a small but steady stream of guests at the Wayside, and she found the work pleasant enough serving their needs, enjoying their company, and providing breakfast and rooms for what travelers passed through. Some were regular guests, never knowing there was anything different from the ordinary about this particular bed and breakfast. Others were guests sent her by this or that current or former SHIELD agent, people looking for a safe place to land and breathe for a little while. And others were the current and former SHIELD agents, checking into the safehouse for food, comfort, rest, and medical attention or resupply before they received extraction, or in the case of a certain Agent Barton who seemed overly fond of getting himself injured, before they extracted themselves.

James had come in one morning, scruffy and a bit scraped up and dirty around the edges, looking like he pulled himself in from a long hike and probably an altercation or two. Jemma knew the look and the walk and the wariness in tired eyes. When he gave Steve Rogers' passcode and said, "Stevie sent me," she checked him in and gave him a comfortable room before heading up later to offer the medical attention that came with Wayside's safehouse function.

He accepted medical supplies and declined assistance.

He was quiet, his room littered with books about Captain America and the Howling Commandos, all of which disappeared neatly into his duffel before he left. She didn't think much about it.

Then he came back.

* * *

"Is it just me, or do you like stopping here?" Jemma asked with a small teasing smile on his third visit. He seemed more relaxed, less haunted.

He smiled back charmingly and said, "I like the latkes."

"Oh, I see. Your usual room?" She held up the key so he could see it.

He nodded, then paused a moment before leaving the desk. "I like the proprietor as well."

He disappeared with that quick and quiet tread before Jemma could do more than blush.

* * *

The fourth visit, he let her haul him in the back door and uncover his prosthetic arm—metal, _vibranium,_ she noted, surprised—and patch up his extensive injuries. There was nothing mild about that one, though he claimed the word anyway.

"Ambushed. I'm fine."

She just shot him an incredulous, raised eyebrows look, and jabbed a needle in his arm. "You don't seem properly educated on the definition of the word 'fine,' Mr. Buchanan."

He shot her a full-blown charming grin. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Being alive is a good first step," she agreed. "Are you sure you don't want painkillers?"

But James just blinked at her, as if puzzled. "No. I meant _here._ At Wayside."

And that was impossible to miss. Her hand froze, work hitching while she looked up in shy surprise. "Well," she said and made herself sew the next stitch. "I'm glad you're here too."

* * *

He came downstairs with the other guests in the evening when they gathered around the fire on the plush couches and chairs, some reading, others talking comfortably among themselves. Jemma distributed a tray of hot teas and coffee and a plate of gluten-free scones that had passed even Skye's muster last time she'd tried the recipe. It was a full house tonight, a family of four in her largest rooms, a couple, an elderly gentleman, and James.

In the end, she settled herself on the chair by the window near where James sat staring into the fire. He wore a hoodie with his hands hidden in its pocket, and no one could see that there was anything unusual about him.

She wondered how often she'd dealt with his strength and had never had to worry about him abusing it. And that made her think about the benefits and drawbacks to a vibranium prosthetic and _whose_ idea had that been anyway. It couldn't be comfortable in bad weather, not with his well-integrated nervous system.

"You're thinking too hard," James commented dryly, snapping her out of her trance.

Her cheeks heated and she shook her head. "Just working on a science problem."

He looked amused at her in a fond sort of way, and it made her wonder for a moment what exactly they were doing. On the one hand, there was enough unmistakable flirting that she couldn't wonder too hard. On the other hand, he was a roving agent with no apparent SO, thus questionable SHIELD status, and she was an attached biochem tech running a safehouse as though it was just another friendly little business and domestic haven. How long could this last?

"I, uh, should check on tomorrow's breakfast." It was a lame excuse, but she took it and slipped out before things could get more awkward in the middle of everyone else. She almost called May for advice or Skye for a good girl-talk. Instead, she rummaged through her supplies in the kitchen and then downstairs in the hidden lab and called Coulson.

* * *

"I need a budget increase."

Coulson sounded patiently amused. He wasn't exactly handing out the big checks right now. "You're a bed and breakfast. You can subsidize."

"You do realize that acting as a SHIELD safehouse constitutes fifty percent of my business," she pointed out. She ran down one of several lists on her clipboard. SHIELD agents didn't have to pay for their time spent at Wayside.

"I thought it was thirty-five percent," Coulson protested.

"That was last year, before—"

"Before SHIELD fell," he finished, understanding dawning.

"Yes, well, please don't remind me that I've set up shop in the mummified corpse of my former organization."

Coulson chuckled in that dry way of his. "That sounds so pessimistic."

"Exactly," Jemma agreed. "Which is why I don't want to think about it. And can you send me some dermal NSAID patches with the next drop? I have an agent or protected party who refuses to ingest normal painkillers."

"Ouch. I'll take care of it." A long pause. "Are you entering requests right now?" She could hear his typing, then, "What do you need vibranium for? I see here you requested 'the minimum amount' you can use."

"Damaged plating that needs repair," she hedged, not ready yet to tell him about James' arm.

Coulson made a sound like a verbal shrug. "I'll send Fitz over with the plate."

"Thank you," she said, all sweetness.

"And you say I never take care of you."

* * *

"So I've been wondering," she brought up while carefully wiring in the replacement plating. "Are you active with, well, you know." Steve's trust or not, Jemma didn't want to name SHIELD just now.

"Not active anymore," James said flatly. "I go though to the old bases."

"You do?" she asked, startled. "Why if you don't have to?"

"They took something and I'm trying to find it."

"And get yourself killed?" she asked, concern making her reach out and touch his cheek. She didn't want to lose him.

His eyes widened a little as he stared back, and there was that tenson again between them. She didn't want to let go, but she settled for working on his arm, carefully attaching wires, cleaning, and bandaging.

"You probably shouldn't get this wet right away, though I can't be sure." She shot him a small smile as she finished wrapping his shoulder.

"Yes, ma'am." He pulled his shirt back on. "Let me help you clean up."

"I've got it." Jemma paused after a moment. "Do you need any help?"

He looked questioning.

"With washing off. Your arm should work better in the morning, but..." She saw understanding flicker in his expression, mingled with faint surprise, and flushed hot with embarrassment. "Never m—"

His hand covered hers gently, metal over flesh, and she fell silent, staring at it. It was warmer than she expected and just as under control as the one he was born with.

She looked up, leaned over, and kissed him.

* * *

Afterward, Jemma ended up sprawled comfortably on top of him as they chatted lightly about this and that, mostly her asking him about the places he had seen lately while traveling.

"I miss running around the country more," she admitted.

James hand ran lightly over her wrist, a soft caress. "It's not all it's cracked up to be."

"Hm. Well, you're going to have to at least introduce me properly to Captain America sometime," she commented. "We've only really met in passing, largely moderated by his biggest fan."

"That's not you?" he teased.

"Stop it." Jemma giggled. "No, that's Coulson. It's quite awkward."

James hmmed thoughtfully and she liked the way that felt under her head, but then he sighed. "I'm not really the best one to do that."

"Did you fight?" She thought of her and Fitz when she took this assignment in the first place, even if it had worked out in her favor. She'd changed locations, but even so, she never made it on HYDRA's radar in the first place.

"No. Haven't talked," James admitted quietly.

"Since when?" She frowned.

"Since..." He growled in frustration. "Since forever. I don't know." 

Jemma blinked at him and propped herself up to look at him. "Steve didn't send you," she realized aloud.

His grip on her tightened. "I'm not the same guy. I'm not Bucky anymore."

Puzzled, she asked. "Who's Bucky?" She wanted to ask how it mattered.

She didn't know to interpret the look on his face, but it was intense as his fingers brushed over her back and he stared at her. "I love that about you."

She flushed and sat up, pulling away to the edge of the bed.

"Jemma?"

"I need...to think."

* * *

"May." Jemma hesitated on the phone, but she heard that little acknowledging, questioning _'hmm'_ that indicated May was listening and expecting whatever question had prompted Jemma to call her before seven o'clock in the morning.

James was in the other room, alone, thinking who knows what while Jemma was curled up, half-dressed and disheveled on her own bed, one hand pressed into her hair as she tried to figure out what was going on. He'd passed the check-in. He wasn't HYDRA. She knew that. She _knew_ it and there wasn't any deeper agenda going on than a safehouse, an attraction, and mysterious lies.

"Simmons?" May's tone swung upward slightly, that familiar tell of concern.

"Who's Bucky?" Jemma shoved out, needing to know and wondering if it would be better to escape that knowledge.

"I'm not sure." Thoughtful, less concerned now that she had a direct target. May wasn't generally considered very readable, but to Jemma, she was an open book of mentor/work mother figure, and it was almost as good as having her here. Better even. Here, May could read Jemma like an open book. "Is this a name or a person?"

A target, a piece of intel, a guest who had Jemma worried... She'd called for less. She'd called sometimes just to gossip.

This time, she shook her head, though May couldn't see it and stared toward the inside of her door. "A friend of Steve's." There were heavy footsteps moving down the hallway on the other side. James leaving probably. Was he Steve's friend? He had to be. It was the only thing that made sense with the evidence presented.

"Steve Rogers?" May's voice came up again, in surprise this time. "If you're talking about now, I'm not sure, but there was a Bucky Barnes in his regiment before."

"I see." Jemma chewed her lip. "It was just a tip. I suppose I'll ask Steve then." She blew it off and put a smile on her face and into her voice. "Thank you anyway."

"Simmons..."

"It's fine. I really need to get breakfast on. Tell Fitz I send love?" The smile was still there, still bright.

May sighed and let it go. "I'll do that. _Call_ if you need anything."

"Yes, Agent May, ma'am." She got off the phone and got out of the clothes that smelled like James, washed her hair that smelled like him until the only thing she could smell was thick strawberry shampoo.

She didn't call. Not Steve and not May.

* * *

Fitz made a supply drop two weeks later and stayed for three while they hammered out some kinks on the new icers. He was his usual self, fitting into her life so naturally, she almost wished she were in love with him and they could get married, settle down, and she wouldn't have to worry about complications from people who didn't understand her thoroughly inside and out and she them.

"You really like him, don't you?" Fitz asked at some point on the third day when she was deeply contemplating the effects of overheating the weaponry.

"What? Who?" She looked up, somewhat caught out and dazed. The words sank in and clawed in when she realized what he was saying.

"That guy who comes in all the time. What's his name?" Fitz did the look away and fingers mimicking grabbing a thought thing. "James." He came back to Jemma.

She winced slightly at the name but shook her head and forced a smile. "Don't be ridiculous."

His eyebrows came up. "I'm not."

"Yes, you are," she said absently and picked up her safety goggles.

"Did he hurt you?" Fitz asked abruptly, a faint look of horror and worry on his face.

If James had and Fitz hadn't been here, he'd probably blame himself, but...

"This isn't about that," she countered. "Can we please just focus on the icers?"

And so maybe she really did like him. She'd rather not think about that right now.

* * *

Fitz was checking out when James came in. He came in the front door as always, dressed like he'd been hiking all over the back woods, but with a degree of hesitation that said he didn't know whether he was welcome.

Jemma hadn't thought she was ready to see him again, but she was already assessing his gait and the way he held himself. He held his arm gingerly and she thought it jerked slightly when he moved.

She shook her head at Fitz's questioning look and smiled. "Would you like your usual room?"

Maybe it was a tiny bit forced, but it meant he had her permission to check in, to stay, to maybe say something that might make this all better.

James looked at her for a long moment, then finally answered, "Yeah."

* * *

Coulson had come through for her on the dermal patches, and she gathered what she'd need before she headed up there. This was half a Fitz thing and half a Simmons thing, but she didn't care at the moment. James was hers and he was _her_ thing. She'd managed to fix his arm before without help, and she could certainly do it again.

* * *

She came in with her medical kit and sat on the bed in front of him without asking, just looked for a few minutes before beginning work. He had pulled off his shirt and cleaned up enough to give her quick access to the arm and now said nothing. Silence was not consent, except when it was, when they were saving their words for protest.

Silence was not consent, except it _was_ consent.

She tapped his arm then the shoulder above as she ran down the metal, testing reflexes and neural connections. When she lifted her hand from the warm skin, he reached and cradled her head in his hand to draw her an inch or two closer.

She caught her breath. They stared at each other, heat rising between them. He gave her the same amount of space she'd given him, then kissed her with a hunger that reverberated through her insides and made her tremble.

She let him for just a moment, fingers lingering close to his shoulder, then gripping him, she kissed him fiercely and pulled herself close. She felt the press of metal into her spine and whimpered at his teeth edging her throat. She dragged her hands from his arms to his face to touch and feel, then moved upward again to tug on his hair.

He groaned and that did it for her. His shirt was off already, which she now appreciated as she skimmed down his chest with her fingers on the way to his belt. His hands flew over her buttons and shoved the blouse back over her shoulders where it caught on her arms because neither was patient enough to break their kiss.

His mouth was hot and her arms and shoulders were starting to ache with the way he tugged against her shirt. She reluctantly let go of his pants to wriggle out of the sleeves, but wouldn't stop kissing him, tasting him. His hand worked over her breast, and she moaned, getting the shirt off, getting her bra off, then dragged his erection out of his open pants, gratified at the noise he made in response. 

She pulled him closer then down as she backed up on the bed.

"Jemma," he breathed against her throat, and it wasn't _Simmons_ , it was personal and intimate and something else she had that she'd kept all to herself.

She'd never been quite so impatient to get the rest of their clothes off and so uncaring of how difficult it was to breathe between kisses. She pulled him down and in, then held him close.

She couldn't and didn't want to keep her hands off of him. She dragged her fingers over the damp skin at the back of his neck, under his hair, back down over his shoulders as she rocked forward to kiss him again and started up a rhythm that balanced the urgency of her need with her desire to make this last. His metal hand slid downward over her stomach, and it felt like her insides flipped over at the touch. 

She rolled over and pushed down on top. Rough gun callouses, a warm palm pressing into her back and trying to get her closer, his thumb sliding home to find her clit, and Jemma shot backward, crying out at the feeling, but too fast. She slowed it down and used her leverage to hold him down and keep the pace where she wanted it. She rocked over him, back and forth, arching away when he pulled her too close, then grinding down as she needed more. She needed more, so much more.

He cursed again and ceded the control she wasn't letting him have. His hands slid to her hips and kneaded her flesh there and she panted at the loss of him on her clit.

"James. More," she got out between ragged breaths.

He arched upward off the bed with too much grace to be human and kissed her, the hardness of his metal hand working into her hair and catching painfully in tangles as he pulled her closer again. His other hand kneaded her breast, and she braced her hands on his shoulders to grind down harder, rock a little faster, then a little faster still. Heat pooled in her belly and thighs and need coiled tightly inside her until sounds she couldn't control were spilling out of her mouth and her head fell back as she came with an intensity that brought damp tears before she collapsed against him.

But he wasn't done with her yet and he rolled her over to press down into her firmly.

"James," she whispered, clinging to his arms and hips.

Then he started them up again, this time the rhythm punishing, and she let him push, let it be too hard and bruising and rough and perfect because she wanted this, and he was winding her up again, even if it hurt a bit.

He thrust one more time and then groaned, "Jemma," as he came.

She wanted to come with him and reached down with her own hand to push herself over the edge, and there, _there_.

* * *

She lay curled up against his side, head on his chest and the shoulder where metal met flesh. Neither of them said much at first, just lay there together in the tentative peace and warmth they'd generated.

Finally, Jemma sighed. "I'm still not happy with you." He'd used Steve's trust somehow and she didn't like the direct lie.

"He wants me to come in," James answered after a moment. "I just used his safe places."

She sat up, turned over, and looked at him. "Come in from where? James, who _are_ you?"

He flushed, a dark look passing through his eyes. "It doesn't matter."

"How can you say that?" Jemma ran her finger lightly over the sensitive part of the join at his shoulder, watched him give one of his rare flinches. "I don't even know where you go, whether you're really who you say you are, or whether I'm abetting the enemy."

"I'm raiding HYDRA bases," he snapped. "I haven't hurt any of yours—or Steve's."

They stared at each other.

Finally, Jemma sighed and reached for her shirt. "I shouldn't have done this."

"Why?" James' voice cracked. "Because I'm not talking to Steve right now? Ask him."

"That's just the thing," she said, frustrated. "Ask him what?"

* * *

She didn't make him leave. He didn't seek her out and come ambush her in the kitchen or living room when it was storming outside and raining that night. She'd made up a fire and sat curled in front of it, wishing she still had another guest or that some agent would come in, needing a safehouse after a mission gone right.

No one came from inside or outside and Jemma watched the flickering fire alone while she waited for something to make sense.

* * *

He appeared at her desk before breakfast where he'd come to know she'd be working numbers and records most Mondays and Thursdays.

She looked up, surprised but ready to be helpful. As ever. It was her job, and he hadn't stopped entirely being that, not so long as she handed him a key when he came inside.

"Can I take you somewhere?" he asked with a grim expression that definitely didn't hint at date material.

She thought about it, thought about the way he tended to communicate with action more than words, then nodded. "All right."

* * *

They went further than she expected, to the local museum where he forked over the money for two day-passes without pausing to ask her whether she'd pay for her own. His gloved hand curled around hers seemingly without him thinking about it and he headed in like he knew exactly where he was going.

It was oddly nice, holding hands. Jemma didn't pull away, just followed him while craning her head curiously to look at everything she could see.

Then there was a small Captain America exhibit, nothing like the one at the Smithsonian, but present nevertheless. She glanced at James, surprised, but his grim face was back and a little more intense. He stopped them in front of the war pictures wall and nodded at one of the Howling Commandos.

She looked curiously and frowned, trying to figure out what he was trying to show her. There. She got it. She turned sharply to him, then back to the picture, mouth opening in wonder. It _was_ him.

She put her fingers on the plaque beside and read off the names.

"Bucky Barnes, but you're..."

"James Buchanan Barnes," he said low, shrugging, eyes dull. "Or I was."

 _'That's what I love about you,'_ he'd said, awe in his voice that she'd asked him who was Bucky, that she hadn't looked at him and seen that history. Steve had sent him, he'd said, wanted him to come in, and so he'd used Steve's safe places, like Wayside.

"I see." She ran her fingers over the name, studied the picture for another long minute. She straightened and tucked her hand back into his. She smiled at him and tugged gently on his arm. "I heard they have a nice ancient Egyptian exhibit complete with heiroglyphics and a real mummy."

"A mummy?"

"Come on. Don't be a spoilsport."

It was an unsubtle changing of the subject, but after a while of chattering happily through the exhibits, she felt the tension drain out of him as he slowly relaxed, then his arm settled over her shoulders as he kissed the top of her head.

She didn't protest the public nature of it, just kept looking around until finally their need for food drove them back to the Wayside for lunch.

* * *

"I made you a sandwich," Jemma announced.

James tasted it cautiously.

She play-slapped his shoulders. "You like my cooking," she reminded him with a playful grin.

"Yeah." He paused and tentatively reached for her hand.

"You eat your sandwich," Jemma said softly. "I'll be back in a minute."

* * *

She called Steve.

"This is Jemma Simmons. I don't know if you remember me." She tried to keep the nervous, awkward, I'm talking to Captain America tone out of her voice, whether or not Coulson gave her this number ages ago and Steve had passed through the Wayside once or twice since Jemma had taken it over.

But he was as supremely _nice_ as she remembered. "I remember you. How are you?" 

"I just needed to ask you something." She hesitated, then threw it out there. "Would you trust Bucky?"

There was a long silence, heavy and awkward, and she hoped he wasn't angry at her for asking.

"Why?" he asked abruptly, voice breaking over it the way James' voice had broken over the same word when she asked him who he was. "Have you seen him?"

How could she answer that without giving him away? Finally, she went out on a limb. "Yes. He's fine. He's trying to figure things out, I think."

The second silence was longer, but finally Steve sighed. "You can probably trust him. If he's not trying to kill you."

Jemma swallowed at that. There was plenty of bad history in the shadows in James' eyes and expression, the way he stared at his metal hand sometimes with something akin to loathing on his face. But he wasn't trying to kill her.

"Thank you," she said.

"Take care of him," Steve said heavily.

Jemma nodded. "I will."

When she hung up, she knew it wasn't over and she'd drawn at _least_ one concerned party to check on her in the upcoming days and weeks, but she also knew how long she'd had James wandering in and out of her safehouse, and she knew now that what he had told her was true as far as it went.

She smoothed back her hair, grabbed her own sandwich, and went out to join him.


End file.
